Earn the Bullet
by Zaedah
Summary: Apparently, we’re waiting for a different shade of green.
1. Alcohol Songs

_Piratesmiley (in her usual fabulous way) gave us drunk Olivia. May I now respond with Drunk Peter..._

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**Earn the Bullet**

No good sentence ever starts with 'let me ask you something.' Seeking permission means it's personal, which for me translates into uncomfortable, which prompts another round. Why does she do that? And why does she always do it when drunk?

Actually, this might not be so bad for me since she may not remember my answer to whatever is brewing in her alcohol-soaked brain. Unless she's faking the tipsiness like the good little agent she is. Of course, inebriation tends to shove me down the path of paranoia. And there she sits, looking so… Damn. This is a problem.

Sober me is better at dodging. Drunk me has no balance. Liquor makes such a soft landing that falling becomes an option. It would be so easy. But she's asking now and I miss it because I'm transfixed by the formation of words by those beer-sweetened lips. I'd ask her to repeat but if my tongue moves, it may drift somewhere that'll earn me a bullet. While I'm gauging the worthiness of it, I simultaneously debate whether she's showing off that delectable collarbone just to spite me. But she says it again at a volume the Chinese government can hear.

_Do I want to?_ Is she kidding?

Sobriety hits me about the same time that her perfume does and I wonder why she even bothered to ask. She should know what she's requesting isn't my thing. I'm not proud, mind you. Throw me across the table and get it over with.

Which she doesn't do, though it doesn't interfere with her apparent goal of stripping me. Of my dignity, I mean. Because, in the reality we rarely live in, I don't actually want to. I'm not kidding. I'm clearly not drunk enough for it. But, it turns out that despite the whole 'asking' bit, she's not really interested in my opinion. I know this because she's dragging me and my slurred protests up to the stage, depositing me at the piano while she butchers the opening of a moody pop song. The bleary-eyed patrons aren't critics, fortunately.

Britney she's not, but with the swaying hips before me, my playing gets a little sloppy. And I'm glad I'm sitting. She finishes on a wavering high note to sporadic applause, seemingly thrilled with herself. First-timer, I'm guessing. I tell her, as we make our staggering way to a taxi, that I need payment for my services.

Her response gets us thrown out of the cab.

Somewhere between the curb and her door I say, 'let me ask you something' and she's chanting yes before I get the question out. Not that I mind. Because I've got that ass in my hands and she's singing just for me.


	2. Theme Park

_If you don't like the concept of Petey and Livvy getting it on, please avert your eyes. _

(It's okay Smiley, WJ, Beag, Ocein and DI, you may look!)

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**Earn the Bullet**

Part the Second

In the hours heading recklessly toward 'way too early,' we're testing the theory that humans are not, in fact, webble wobbles. It's a scientific certainty that if she takes any linger to unlock the uncooperative door, we'll both fall down. I look behind me to count the number of steps that will partake in our possible demise and decide that breaking down the door is a safer option. But then she masters the coordination necessary to insert key A into lock B.

We're inside. Cue the disaster.

If asked to take a breathalyzer test, we'd both melt the equipment. So it stands to reason that my next decision will be alcohol-influenced. With the door swung open, I spot a solid wall to the right. Good craftsmanship. She'll be only too edible against it. I taste that taunting collarbone as I push her spine into the wallpaper. She clings to me for balance so that her foot can stretch out to kick the door closed. Obtaining privacy is a matter of national security; no kid should see where her hand has ventured.

Those lips, so recently belting pop drivel like a stoned lumberjack in love, now draw a chorus of groans from my throat. I need this. I must have her because celibacy is the executioner of my sanity and this woman has the power to pull my head from the guillotine. I'll plead for the firing squad if she'll just move a little faster, a little left, a little more. And I'm coming undone in her grasp as my mouth latches onto the treasures I've freed from the constraint of her shirt. But I want to play in her theme park, so with monumental exertion I pull away and scan for any piece of furniture that might hold us. Meanwhile my skyscraper is aiming high and her third floor is exposed.

Why the hell am I thinking in architectural metaphors?

Eight miles from seductive is the manner in which she's dragging me to the couch. Staggering into a freefall onto the cushions, the sofa arm meets my skull in a blinding crack that almost, _almost _distracts me from the removal of her pants. It would take more than a coma to keep me from the fun ride. But I have no leverage down here and the effort to achieve nakedness only tangles my limbs beneath her. No complaints here since she's kicking it into lightning speed. Except that a tender part of me is still freebirding in the fresh air where she'd abandoned it and the rub of her leg is a bullet to my brain. The jolt is too much and I roll us off the couch. The rug gives blessed traction above a body I realize is motionless.

I knocked her out. Why does God hate me?

Welcome back, sobriety. Legs too shaky from averted satisfaction, I know I can't pick her up. Dragging will produce rug burns she'll never believe derived from consideration of her comfort. The government trains their agents to dine on suspicion and Olivia will be full when she wakes. Panic knocks my flagpole to the ground and I tuck it back where it can be done no harm.

I'm screwed. And worse, I wasn't screwed.

I leave her there. Cold water is thrown on a thwarted face and when I return, I work out the trajectory. A bit of a roll, a smidge of tugging and the unconscious is nestled onto the hated couch. Her pants are rebuttoned and the sweater pulled down over the objects of my long speculation. Yes, they're magnificent but the taste of them on my tongue turns to mold. Her last memory will be significantly unprofessional contact. I question whether she'll assume I took advantage and to the detriment of my pride, I know the answer.

She'll doubt me. Who wouldn't?

In my defense, the bar was her idea. Any polygraph would show that I didn't need to bludgeon her to get what I wanted. My shoulder angel swears it's for the best. Her reaction tomorrow will prove how far the woman trusts me. My shoulder devil snickers that at least I won't see the inevitable morning-after regret. I run from looks like that and I'm just not ready to move on yet.

Because I still want her. And a cold shower. The inquisitive section of my brain needs to know what makes her writhe, soar and implode. Only next time, there'll be no liquor, no rug burn.

And no damned head injuries.


	3. Duck and Cover

_A further installment for the cautionary tale of why one mustn't drink before attempting sofa sex. Many thanks for returning and a promise of one more chapter to go._

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**Earn the Bullet**

Part the third

A life on the run is an experiment in duck and cover strategy. I've ducked without covering. I've covered without ducking. I've done both and neither. The question I wake to this morning is whether any combination thereof will save me.

Seven o'clock brings Astrid's sweet coffee, Walter's aimless rambles and Gene's disinterested moos. None of these comfort me when prophesy says I may die today. I'd left Olivia's last night after the snoring commenced, creeping out like a criminal from the scene where nothing of a penetrating nature occurred. There's little hope that she'll have forgotten in the haze of a hangover. I haven't and I was twice as drunk. But I'm not running. I may hit the deck if the gun goes off but there will be more fight than flight in my response. It's not like I haven't conned my way out of the gallows before.

I am aware that I'm not giving Olivia much credit, but my luck must be in witness protection because I haven't seen it since I lost my virginity. So essentially, the arrival of sex in my life has systematically destroyed it. Presenting exhibit A: the hurricane whipping a path through the door.

Blond hair trailing behind, the power suit steers the body into her office. She inflicts curt nods on our cohorts and possibly the cow, but not a glance is spared in my direction. Surprise. And I spend a tense hour abusing my cuticles while she calls Broyles, Albany's field office, a contact, her sister and the Buddha. Sometime after Walter's third beaker explodes, I catch the angry gesture of a hostile woman, summoning me to her room. I know I've earned this, playing with things I don't own and not putting them back. And the walk is slower than molasses running uphill in Alaska.

Oh well, living was overrated.

As I enter, I anticipate castration. I expect decapitation. But the slender woman is slamming me against the wall with a bruising kiss. She steals air from my lungs, the sole piece of my anatomy complaining. And I feel drunk again, though I suspect I'm missing something. With an advantage of size and a total appreciation for her chosen style of punishment, I overtake the agent, usurping her crown of aggression with a thud that somehow goes unnoticed by our companions. She doesn't mind the resumption of last night's position, her spine scraping plaster while my hands tear at the crisp shirt that screams authority.

I've never wanted so badly to screw authority.

Small fingers grip what they can of my short hair, holding me firm and refusing us both the benefit of oxygen. A cell phone rings but the sound is muted by the pounding in my chest. Damned if I won't take her right here, potential audience or not. The desk looks formidable but before the contents can be swept to the floor for space, the dull alarm in my skull grows exponentially sharper and I pull away, brain damage and blame overpowering the more carnal thoughts. The heat in her eyes gives way to more disappointment that I think I can stand.

"Why did you leave?" It's the interrogation voice.

Because I'm not into unconscious chicks? Because your gun's loaded? Because my insecurities could swallow the Harvard campus? Because, for a genius, I get so little right?

"Because I didn't belong there."

Of all the possible responses, _that's_ the one I pick? Stuck with it now, I produce a glare, daring her to deny it. It's half-hearted but effective. She's backing away like my words are fumes. I picture her wringing thin hands as she apologizes for what beer hath wrought. I see her accepting responsibility because she's the one with morals. But it's wrong. This is my own fault. Truth is a brutal adversary some days.

Her brow furrows. "I fell asleep and somehow it's your fault?"

Did I open my mouth? Did they make her a mind reader? Can my guilt be seen by satellite?

"It's in your eyes," she answers the confusion, which doesn't exactly erase it.

How do I explain how deeply the fear has buried me? How can I ask her to trust that I'm not the person my record and cynicism would suggest? That she feels free to get smashed with me, predicting that I'd know how to play Beautiful and then lets me so, so close is a chisel with no strength against my frozen panic. But her hand touches my chin, searing through the stubble and the ice breaks off in chunks.

"I thought you would think…"

"I know," she's smiling now, "what you thought."

Forgiveness in five words, though I doubt she actually knows the complexities of the male mind. But while she's straightening her shirt, said mind keeps pulling the tape of her swaying ass and complications no longer exist.

"You owe me a conclusion." She's out of reach, moving to the doorway. "And I always collect."

Then the beacon of all that's glorious is gone, the world calling on her to solve the day's sinister activities. I believe I've just been commandeered for tonight's.

And by God, we're gonna be sober.


	4. Debt Collector

_And onward to the promised snogging..._

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**Earn the Bullet**

Part the fourth

People are under the impression that the nomadic life represents the essence of freedom. Clearly they've never unchained themselves from the time clock and tried it. The advertisement sells the package on three things; no bills, no responsibility, no worries. However, my rambling existence has incurred a sporadic and often sizable debt, the cost of the daring entrepreneur. Unfortunately, my easy solution became my addiction. Gambling. Every town I drifted into featured a bookie quickly put on speed dial. Dealers became friends, living quarters were substituted with sports bars and I knew the stats of every greyhound and thoroughbred on both coasts.

Sometimes, when one delays payment, a fist is waiting behind every door. I know, I used to be that fist. But I've also seen the world through blackened eyes for skipping town with a pocketful of someone else's cash. This new gig was supposed to feature debt-free living. But…

The armed blond at my door is by far the prettiest collector I've ever felt threatened by. It's been three days since my hands traveled without a passport and they're itching at the sight of her. Frustrated blue eyes take in my father's intrusive presence and I want to remind her of my failed requisitions for separate rooms. Olivia's throwing a plastic wrap excuse in Walter's direction and we're out the door. The getaway car, left running, is steaming at the curb under the watch of a new moon. It feels humid tonight, my skin prickled by a heat not related to the weather.

At the first red light, she throws the car into park and leans across three cup holders to devour me. Forgoing seat belts turns out to be a blessing because she's practically in my seat, unhindered and unworried about the honking. Apparently, we're waiting for a different shade of green. If this is the payment I owe, praise debt. Headlights swing in and out of view at dangerous angles but I've got a handful of golden hair and I'm not letting go.

Except she gives a yelp and I register that the gearshift is trying to insert itself where I desperately need to be. Reluctantly she resumes the chore of driving, pulling away from the light and refusing to look at me as though she might forget to stop the vehicle next time. This giddiness is new to me, surging to the surface when I see her squirming in her seat. My fingers seek action, wandering along her left thigh while I watch her speed fluctuate according to my longitude. The muscle under coarse fabric contracts and flinches, her bottom lip disappearing into her mouth.

The gasp is my new religion.

Oh, we're having sex tonight, Agent Dunham. The Pattern could strike, the kitchen could sprout a volcano, I might drink the plague and a naked Lucifer may be waiting in her bed but damned if anything will keep me out of the theme park this time. I may have to bubble wrap her head to prevent a repeat of the Great Sofa Disaster, but that's a small admission price. And I know she agrees when she throws open her door before the tires stop rolling.

We're inside and then I'm inside. Right in the hall, against a wall, while still essentially dressed. I don't care. I'm at the altar, she's speaking in tongues and we're both saved. We're not being careful but that rates well below the lava building where we're connected. I no longer feel alone, out of place and wrong. I'm losing my grip on her and my senses. When the floor comes up to meet us, we don't stop to assess the damage. The angelic being screams like a dying banshee and that's all I need.

Debt paid. Conclusion reached. Hot damn.

A few blinks clear the echo of dreams. Sunrise's fingers stretch across the room and I find a bed beneath me. And a body above me. I get the fact that it's morning, I understand where I am, I know who she is. I just don't recall how we made it to the bed.

Oh yeah…

By way of the kitchen, the laundry room and that detour by the back door. God must have stuffed a few extra hours into the night for us, because I've never done so much in so short a span of time. It's possible that I've achieved that glow reserved for pregnant women and it lasts exactly four minutes. I've never been able to get the key back from old fears and they march right in, stripping me of light. And I can't look at her.

She's sleeping soundly, a testament to my skill perhaps but also the last hour in which we began a week's worth of snogging. My shoulder devil's back, batting about notions of rejection, regret and a few other R's that'll need serious scotch to wash away.

"Not this time," she mumbles into my chest.

I hadn't realized I'd moved but her firm grip around my waist will keep it from happening again. The shoulder angel pokes me with his little stick, taser-like and ultimately unnecessary. The panic is receding.

"I won't."

She drowns out my assurance with a dainty snore that knocks my angels right off their perch. I don't need them now, the decisions coming easier the closer she gets. As adorable as the tough agent is asleep, I'm stirred and ready to wake her. But first, I push the gun out of reach. We're accident-prone, the pair of us and I'm sick of distractions.

And when her waking face shows only delight in my methods, I decide we've finally found the right shade.


End file.
